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There's a small town in the middle of nowhere it seems. There are small, one-storey homes built closely together throughtout the town but a thick fog makes anything beyond the town all but impossible to see. What vegetation can be seen is overgrown. Debris litters the street. Everything has a very "Silent Hill" feeling or looks downright ghetto. I'm in a large vehicle (a bus, I think) driving around this fog encased town looking for something or someone. There are people on the streets and they go about their business like any small, sleepy town would. They do not seem to notice the fog, or just don't care about it.

In the middle of the dream there is this scene that seems to repeat itself over and over (or I am unconsciously doing the same exact movements over and over) but everytime it starts up again there is different "background" music. I cannot see where the music is coming from. It seems atmospheric, almost like the music was born from the very air particles that I was breathing in.

I stopped the bus and got out because I was frustrated with feeling "stuck" and tried to find my way on foot. There was some incident in the street, but I have fogotten what transpired now. At one point I wander into an alleyway behind some buildings and turn around just in time to see the bus I was previously on run down and crush some poor woman in a pink sweater and beige pants (I didn't get to see her face so I don't know she is but I think it is my mother because of how she is dressed). The bus did not stop or slow down when it hit the lady and drove right into a brick wall, compacting the front of the bus like an accordian, and I assume, killing the driver.

At first I was horrified and tried to run away from the grisly scene, but then something compelled me back. I felt sick to my stomach when I returned, especially when when I noticed a group of people and their children approaching. I tried to stop them from viewing the horror, but I woke at about that moment and remember no more of this dream.

Original dream dated 02/19/2006:
I had this dream that a whole bunch of people were back from the dead. Not zombies... just suddenly not dead either. Including my old pet cat, Abby, whom I loved more than anything on the face of the earth.
However, all of the people who had returned were also going to die again soon. For some reason, in my dream, I thought that the best way to commemorate Abby's passing (and soon, her passing again) was to eat her remains. Hell if I know what goes through my head, it was a dream. Except that we put her in the pan and started cooking her while she was still alive, and when I realized "oh my god, what the hell am I doing?!" her paws were all charred and she was halfway cooked. She didn't seem to be in pain and she didn't seem to hold it against me, but I knew that she was going to die again very very soon because of what I'd done... my mom rationalized it by "She was going to die anyway" except that it wasn't good enough reasoning for me because it meant that she was going to die sooner than she would have died on her own...
So anyway, I held my half-cooked cat for a while and cried. On to the next dream...

So then I dreamed that there were 2 teams of people. All of them were female. One of them was 3 different people, and one of them was composed of a team of one person, cloned 3 times. The second team sat on top of some very tall poles and had little white explosive balls that bounced off of everything and anything. The first team's job was to get the balls from them. The second team got no weapons or anything at all, but their position was very secure. The first team got a whole bunch of gadgets and toys.

So, the first team got really close - they had to because their weapons didn't have much range (one of them was a fan attached to a rope). The second team threw 2 of the 3 balls at them, which they managed to whack away from themselves with a flashlight, and the explosions the balls made were really big. The first team managed to kill 2 of the 3 clones, but the third one was impossible to get to.

Finally, after talking with the clone for a while, it came down from the pole. It had originally been a girl, but now for some reason was a boar. The leader of the second team talked to the boar and told it that she wished that it could see something really beautiful so it would appreciate life.
There was also a cat. The first teams' supervisor came up, and the boar was afraid of him, so it ran back up the pole. He wanted to talk to the cat, but the cat was also afraid of him.

Then I woke up.

Morning of February 14, 1982. Sunday.



This is one of those “riding around in a car while relatives look for something” dreams, more common when I was much younger. I am with my brother-in-law Bob though at another point seem to be with someone else who is driving (possibly brother-in-law Mel and my sister Carol). I am in the back seat on the right side for the most part and my dream wavers between being alert and feeling a bit “off”.

There is a strong focus on finding a “bird cemetery” that takes up exactly one city block, or so it seems. However, over time, I get a very eerie feeling that something is not quite right. Time does not seem to pass normally as if I am living within some sort of looped or repeating situation. It does not come to my awareness at all that there are no bird cemeteries as such, and such an idea does not even seem strange to me in-dream. In fact, I get the impression that most bird cemeteries are probably a little bigger than many human cemeteries. At one point, it seems we pass the same bird cemetery several times (even though we do not make any turns, it seems) but do not stop because, for some reason, it is not the right one (the one we apparently are actually going to stop and visit). I see more and more bird cemeteries that seem similar or are somehow the “same” one and begin to recognize that there are hardly any other landmarks or areas with normal buildings (so that perhaps the “same” one-block bird cemetery is to be seen for three blocks in a row, that is, three instances of it). My uncomfortable awareness that I am stuck in some sort of “loop” remains until I wake as well as some sort of other unnamed but eerie association I cannot quite put words to (though my dream is too emotionless otherwise to be nightmarish).

This dream possibly came from (or was influenced by) the line “the mockingbird still singing o'er her grave”, as I get a vague impression that many of the birds are probably mockingbirds, shrikes, and starlings - this in turn possibly layered with the otherwise unrelated novel title “To Kill a Mockingbird”.

Update (July 2, 2015): I should probably add in this online entry that when I was very young, I very much thought that the line “the mockingbird still singing o'er her grave” was about the ghost of a mockingbird singing over her own grave. This is probably important regarding this particular dream’s distortion, as it was also a song my father sang (and he died on the fourteenth of February in 1979).

Night of March 15, 1974. Friday.



Flashback to real life. He was thirteen. I was thirteen. Walking from the southwest exit of the school I was surprised by his attack upon me, knocking my books from my arm but not touching me directly. “You’re evil,” he said, “How do you know so much about what’s going to happen?" He seemed so angry and I had no clue what he was referring to other than the fact that certain classmates seemed suspicious of me for no particular reason (likely due to my ethnicity and little else, though many thought I was Asian). We were about the same size. He was born in Queens, New York but came to this small isolated town a couple years before. I never knew this. Until 2014. He was a Catholic. Another thing I never knew until now.

I was totally confused by his unexpected behavior. He had rarely even spoken to me before that day and I did not recall ever seeing him angry before or even that annoyed by anything. I was the last classmate he ever spoke to. I did not know until later. The calmer and friendlier I remained, the angrier and more out of control he got but we did not actually fight or make physical contact at all. He remained standing about four feet away at the closest, facing the entrance of the school, seeming nervous and hesitant. He did not move as I picked up my textbooks and notebooks. I did not have a clue. "Get'im, M,” said another classmate walking by on his way to the bus stop at the end of this school day.

I caught myself absentmindedly giggling as one would laugh at a lunatic on a television show…and of course, this made him even more angry, his breathing more and more coarse, almost as if he had been running for a long time. Eventually, he walked off westerly on his own and off the school grounds, never looking back. Two girls, to my right, the only others around, leaning against the outer wall of the school perpendicular to where I was, gave me an amused look, one whispering to the other and the other shaking their head and looking back at me.

This…made…no…sense. At all. How could a thirteen-year-old boy act so angry? And why?

My dream. It was lucid and almost overpowering. Susan R kept “pushing” at me mentally. “Are you thinking about me?" She kept saying. "Don’t think about M. Think only about me. Please." The imagery was somewhat kaleidoscopic. Her head, her essence, almost seemed like it was on a Ferris wheel. "Please. Are you thinking about me? You must only think about me." It went on for about two hours. I felt dizzy and strange for a time and felt like I was replaying "The Chrysalids” in my mind later on, and actually slept on the living room floor near my door that night and for some reason felt as if all my energy was gone. I was not angry or upset. I was just very puzzled. My mother did not wake me. I had slept there a few times before during a bad storm.

Night of March 16, 1974. Saturday.

In my dream, Susan walks up to me with her arms crossed over her chest. There was a knee-high mist everywhere. “M’s gone…” she informs me. She lowers her head and cohesion is lost.

Night of March 19, 1974. Tuesday.

In reality, I did not return to school on Monday, but on Tuesday due to a mild illness. That was when I learned that M had died suddenly on Saturday; no explanation. I learned this when I asked Roosevelt where he was when I noticed he was not at his desk, only asking because of the previous week’s events - otherwise I probably would not have regarded his empty seat. “He died,” he said sadly. Nothing was said of him after…ever. I did see his photo in a frame in the bank where his mother worked.

A thirteen-year-old should not have so much hate and anger and then just die without cause. This event, for many years, made me even more passive in my communication with people. I thought about it way too much and of course, it took over a year to put it farther back in my mind. Although it was not that often, when people seemed angry with me for no reason, I felt relaxed and calm. In fact, in the back of my mind, I decided that if I were to become angry or aggressive, I could just die suddenly. I have grown out of this way of thinking over the years, but I still do not hold anger very long. It is as if I had been conditioned. In fact, I have learned that even when I “sound” angry (including in writing), I am not, as if people cannot “read” me correctly.

In my dream of this night, I was at my middle school in the homeroom classroom. It is seemingly after hours. I am the only one around, it seems. The room is of an eerie semidarkness.

My attention is brought to two shadowy figures under a large table (almost as if they are indulging in a game of hide-and-seek). They are seated on their knees and clasping hands in silhouette - which I believe is imagery borrowed from a version of “The Newlywed Game”. It is very strange. I sense the female on the left is the “mystery girl” yet I also contemplate it is Susan. The one on the right is “me”. I am watching myself - like an older future version (or perhaps “revision”) of “me”. This seems to be some sort of eerie occult ritual even though it is just a silhouette of two people at the beginning of marriage, perhaps.

A disembodied voice comes through the doorway. “It is alright that M died because his family killed horses!" The voice declares this ominously. A suffocating horse writhes and dies in the classroom directly in front of me, its eyes bulging. A disturbing sound emanates from that area of the room.

I wake in terror…and a year later, I was more at ease.

Night of March 16, 1975. Sunday.

M appears in my room. There is a pale glow all around him. He seems happy. He says things are okay now.